


on the longest night

by velificatio



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Animal Sacrifice, Historical, M/M, Magical Realism, Secret Saito, Slavs, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velificatio/pseuds/velificatio
Summary: Arthur’s true reward for his victories came in the winter, when his people endured their God’s cruelty and the harshness of nature. On Koročun the Black God would rise, a being who craved to devour all the darkness in Arthur’s soul.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amarulasmile](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=amarulasmile).



> For amarulasmile, and their Secret Saito prompt "ornaments"
> 
> This fic takes place in Serbia and I've changed some of the characters names to their Serbian equivalents. Koročun traditionally takes place during the winter solstice.

The first zduhać Arthur slew was a boy appearing not much older than himself. He’d seen only eight summers but his mother had prepared him well, teaching him to slit the throat of hogs from the moment he could firmly grasp a blade. When his time came he drove his splinter through the boy's eye knowing he must either kill or be killed in turn.

Not only would his own death be upon him if he failed, but the lives of all those dwelling in his town would perish. So again and again Arthur fought, and triumphed.

At daybreak Arthur’s soul was battered from harrowing gales, drenched red as he returned to his sleeping body. Part of the blood his own, the rest belonging to his latest opponent. Yet there were no wounds to be found on him as he roused from slumber.

Groaning, Arthur hastily retrieved his bowl from the floor, emptying his belly of its last meal. He pressed his caul, sewn into a wolf’s pelt, against his chest to keep it free of any mess. “Fuck.” It felt as if a vicious imp was stomping on his stomach.

Reluctant he may have been to rise from the pile of wool blankets laid atop his wooden bed, the light shining through the window on the wall at its foot reminded him of his duties. Arthur nearly cursed once more, finding the bowl he kept water in empty. No large matter, the river that traveled underneath his home was running steadily as ever.

There were other sounds he heard, words shouted in a tongue he could not comprehend. A thundering clash of blades rang in his ears, along with the roar of warring men. Young and old, wounded and dying. It was through his gifted abilities he was able to hear them. Though he could not see them, Arthur knew well what a sight the battlefield was. Torn flesh, pale bones protruding from skin. The choking stench of rot, of shit and gore soaking the ground.

No matter how terrible the noise, Arthur did not attempt to flee from it. He had dragon’s blood within him, and had ceased to be afraid long ago.

Arthur did not dress himself further as he was due for his first bath of the day. The blood in his body would keep him warm enough. He meant to venture to the sacred corner of his home, where his thistles and birch branches were kept but as he entered the center room a harsh laugh distracted him.

“I am grateful you took pleasure in the bread and milk I brought you,” Arthur said to his unseen domovoi, wondering what apparent good fortune would come to him. “And thank you for the fresh firewood.” He would be certain to offer his household guardian more mead and drink tonight.

Emerging from his home Arthur felt the frigid wind billowing through the air, looked to the snow covered ground. A light blanket, a mere promise of the heavy snowfall which would descend in time. Even so, the cold and the time of death was already upon them.

As he stepped through the door his foot brushed against a large wreath, made of pine branches with their cones, dried cherries and raspberries strung throughout. Someone must have laid it there as he slept. Curious, Arthur picked it up.  This was not a wreath used during Kupala to seduce men, or for any sort of magical use that he knew of. Merely pleasing to the eye.

Footsteps were approaching him. Arthur glanced up, setting the wreath aside to greet his chief.

“Arthur,” Dominik’s opanci and breeches were covered in mud, the left sleeve of his jelek was torn. His eyes lingered on Arthur’s bare skin. “Our newest hogs got loose.” He explained. “I meant to come by earlier but Mal insisted I wait.”

Arthur shrugged. “I was resting still, we both know you would not have been able to wake me.” He motioned towards the wreath. “Is she the one who made this?”

“With Filipa.” Dominik said proudly, flicking his long braid of hair behind his shoulder. “A gift for our Arthur.”

Of course. Arthur had foreseen Jakov, a newborn zduhać, would develop a fever, allowing Mal to collect the necessary plants and healing waters from their temple in preparation. Arthur hummed, pondering the possession in those last words for a moment.

“I’m going to bathe,” He said finally. Once more he eyed Dominik’s uncleanly state, “You should join me.” Arthur touched one of the wooden stilts holding his home above the riverbed and stream as he made his down to the river.

“Not all of us have the gift of dragon’s blood to help withstand the cold.” Dominik laughed, following after him. He settled on the wooden walkway leading from one side of the riverbed to another. When Arthur removed his pelt, Dominik reached forward to hold it.

Cupping water in his hands, Arthur poured it over the top of his long lock of hair and the shaved portion of his head as well, tucking the wet strand behind his ear. “You should call for an assembly of our clan in your home today.”

“To what end?”

Arthur rubbed water on his legs and waist, feeling its healing powers alleviate the sickness he’d awoken with, while also bringing him closer to the Gods in his cleanliness. “To aid me in convincing them to slaughter our livestock at nightfall. A blot must be done as well, with our finest ox and bull.”

Although Dominik was their chief, he had been chosen by their clan and any course of action which affected their people must be unanimously agreed upon to occur. However he was hesitant. “Our last blot was not much long ago. And the harvest taken from the Dregovichs provides us with enough to also sustain our livestock-”

“It must still be done.” Arthur said, irked by Dominik’s arrogance. “As a sign of respect. Morana bears the might of a goddess and she has brought the winter, which regardless of my poweress will be long. Even with our food there is no certainty all of us will survive. We must acknowledge it is her time to reign alongside Perun.”

Dominik gave a grudging nod of assent, not as chastised as he ought to be, but this was nothing new. Descended from the Gods as they all were, at times Arthur felt Dominik’s ambition might be to become one himself. As such he could at times forget his place.

It was not as though he had no cause for such arrogance. Certainly his vision had aided them immensely in creating a town immersed in the edge of the woods while they had success using the land for farming.

However it was not as though they existed invisible to world beyond their land. The Bulgarian Khanate continued to battle to claim Slavic soil as their prize, and they were closing in on Serbia. As of now, they were fortunate to live under the rule of Serbian Prince Vlastimir of the Vlastimirović, as part of an independent territory. How long that would last, only the Gods knew.

Arthur did not mind rearing his chief in. Even so, much of his focus was on savoring the quietness in his mind.

With his caul pelt on, whether he lay asleep, or walked among his people he heard sounds from lands close and distant. Voices lingered with him always, adding to the weight he felt in his limbs upon rising, the tiredness he could never seem to cull.

As he finished bathing Arthur felt an old desire to keep his caul off, to have the reprieve from his magic last a while longer. Swiftly as the urge stirred he crushed it underfoot.

Dominik handed him his pelt at once. “I’ll spread word for everyone to come together while you dress.”

“Thank you Dom,” Arthur said, rubbing at his temples. In another land, where they spoke a tongue Arthur understood, a woman’s agonized screams nearly drowned out the women encouraging her as she endured the labor of bearing child.

_“He will rip you but you must push on.”_

Exhaustion colored her voice, pain emanating in her grunts and yet a fierce resolve could also be heard. Arthur felt his own breathing stutter and quicken alongside her efforts, a pained sigh leaving his lips at the first newborn cry of life.

“ _Blessed Živa, a boy!_ ”

She dwelt where he’d flown many nights ago, bringing whirlwinds and hail that laid waste to their land before departing with their dwindling supply of crops. The charred end of his luč pierced the head of another zduhać, ending their life and surely the life of this child as well.

Winter was not a merciful period and Arthur had condemned hundreds to perish from cold and starvation many times before. Offerings laid at the feet of Morana.

“ _Quite the callous crone, that one._ _She’s not worthy of your devotion._ ” A voice Arthur knew all too well overpowered all else in his mind. Like a warm fire on the other side of a frozen lake. Tempting with a touch of certain danger. “ _But it is sweet nonetheless my dear…_ ”

“You’re not so benevolent yourself.”  Arthur said when Dominik was out of range. “I am in no mood to pacify your jealousy, Black God.”

He refused to react to the laugh he received, regardless of the futility of it. Eames was a god, even if he was not yet at his full capabilities. Of course he knew how the sound of his voice made Arthur’s gaze soften, his blood warm. _“You speak as though neither of us is aware of where you’ll go after the blot.”_

Arthur picked the wreath up as he went back inside his home. “If you make me cross, I won’t come.”

He was met with another laugh. _“Lies. You would show if only to curse at_ _me_. _Even if you did not my dear, I would be first in your mind all the same.”_

 

+

 

In their riverside temple Mal chuckled as she mixed the dark blue woad in her bowl with some moist earth collected from the riverbank to turn their paint black. “You must forgive my husband Arthur. He celebrates his triumphs only as his own, forgetting the Gods have written our stories. It cannot be helped when one is descended from the mighty Perun himself.”

Arthur shook his head fondly, weaving together weeping spruce branches, dead leaves and plums for an officiating wreath Dominik would wear. “Any offense I took swiftly passed.”

In truth he was paying little heed to their conversation. There was a raid occurring in another Slavic village by Bulgars and Arthur’s head ached from the sound of families being slaughtered. His heart however, was unmoved.

Everyone in the town had agreed to hold a blot and slaughter their livestock tonight. It was late afternoon and outside Ariane was boiling water in a large cauldron in preparation for the meat they would cook. A Norse woman with hawkish, inquisitive eyes, she belonged to Mal and Dominik. Arthur had made sure to bring his plans to other volkhvy’s attention days before speaking with Dominik to ensure they and their slaves would have enough time to prepare.

“Before long we shall be preparing for Koročun.” Mal said, handing her bowl of red paint made from blackberries and dandelion roots to Jakov’s wet nurse to set aside as she gave him to her. “Have you foreseen any tidings the winter shall bring?”

“Pereplut has yet to grant me her favor there.” Arthur glanced up at her. “The wreath you and Filipa made me is lovely. It is hanging on my door.”

“You would appear quite fetching if you wore it as well.” Mal played with Jakov’s little fingers, speaking to him then. “When our hound tore your caul and ran off with it Dominik and Arthur searched the woods for days until they found it. And then our Arthur visited me in my dreams to warn me of your fever.” She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I tell you every night that you will grow to be a zduhać as fierce and loyal as our Arthur, don’t I?” Mal’s laugh was sweet when Jakov cooed as if in answer.

Such tenderness, Arthur wondered if Jakov, like himself, would eventually forget these moments when he began his duties.

He smiled at the sight, although he did not feel joy. Even so Arthur looked forward to winter, feeling most at home in himself at the time when man and beast alike clawed at one another for survival. The festival of Koročun in particular, he anticipated for reasons that would be met with great concern, an emotion he had little use for receiving.

On that night he would not have to conceal any part of his nature, even aspects he refused to face himself.  Arthur would lie with a malevolent deity who saw his soul for what it was, the color of a starless night sky.

 

+

 

Red, symbol for life as well as the passions stirred in men’s hearts. Color of the blazing sun, an equally powerful sign of protection from death and disease. When Arthur spread red paint onto Dominik’s face and throat, he called to their ancestral Gods for aid in ushering their people through the winter. Next he drew symbols with black tipped fingers, acknowledging death would come nevertheless as it must.

They proceeded with priests alongside priestesses, led by Dominik, clothed in white and flanked by the small folk. Guided by red glowing torches they marched from their town through the forest, boots crunching over snow-covered leaves. A chant fell from their lips, oaths of devotion, promises to share in their prosperity with those who had come before.

Arthur saw animals flee from their light, heard their rustles and scampering. Their bull and ox gave futile startled huffs, sensing perhaps the coming of their own deaths.

At last they came to their sacred grove, in the shadow of an ancient oak tree. A towering carved statue of Perunn sat before its base. Pedestals surrounded it, each with idols to other gods placed atop them.

Making his way to Dominik’s side, Arthur held a sickle out for him. With only their chants and the sounds of the wilds echoing through the night, Dominik grasped the weapon and proceeded to make their sacrifice.

Arthur immersed himself in the grim spectacle. A blade to the throat, feral twisting of limbs in distress, eyes wide and white as Myesyats’ moon. Surely the pain and misery of their dying cries echoed on as a solemn hymn throughout the surrounding forest. Blood poured forth like a raging river onto Perun’s likeness, overfilling the bowls and flooding the ground. Mal, Robert and himself dipped their sacred bundles of dried wheat twigs in the bowls and smeared blood onto each pedestal.

As they departed back to their town, Arthur touched blood to the kolovrat etched onto his throat. Life’s cycle continuing onward.

 

+

 

Pleasantly full of pottage with only a touch of plum brandy, Arthur stood in his home, bare save for his caul. Having bathed for the fifth time under a cloud covered moon and illuminated by raging fires, his body was purified, prepared for the meeting at hand.

With a steady hand he painted a large kolovrat on the floor with the blood he’d taken from a slaughtered bull. He placed sacred stones along the outside in careful order. When he was finished Arthur laid down inside the kolovrat, placing talismans over both his eyes, allowing his body relax and drift towards slumber.

He felt his body become weightless, his mind departing on a path into another sacred plane of existence. Images flashed before him, so quick and hazy he could not comprehend their meaning. Mountains being carved out in the earth, blackness engulfing the sun, night and day presenting themselves simultaneously, fire falling from the sky.

When Arthur came to full clarity he found himself standing on fallen leaves and wet grass, a crimson fog appearing to rise from the earth. He stood in a forest unlike any he’d walked through in the waking world.

Every tree was either golden or black, their branches curving and encircling one another into knots. Leaves red as blood hung from them, withered and dripping rainwater although the air was not cold. Arthur could only see glimpses of the sky above him for how great their span and height was.

Only the caw of crows the rustle of wind against leaves could be heard as he explored. Every few steps Arthur would be greeted with the sight of the bones men and animals alike situated around tree stumps. Or wolves’ fangs hung on red thread dangling from rotting branches.

He wandered until he came upon a massive uprooted oak, its roots twisted as if in agony.

“Shame you washed away all that sacrificial blood. I don’t need you to be pure.”

It was Eames. At first Arthur could not see him through the fog. But he felt his presence near as surely as he felt his own heartbeat quicken. “What happened to the vucari in the forest you were ruling?” He asked, trying to find his bearings. “I’ve not heard their howling for many seasons.”

“That’s a story for another time,” Eames did not conceal his amusement when his sudden appearance behind Arthur made him jerk away. He was not in Chernobog’s flesh, but the guise he wore to pass among humans. And of course, he was without clothing. “I live for these moments with you my dear.”

Arthur stared at his broad, hairy chest, the span of his thick arms and thighs. Far longer than he meant to. He huffed. “You live for no one but yourself.”

“Such sharp words! They wound me, truly. You know it continues to alarm me,” Eames stroked his beard and his bottom lip. He flipped his braid of hair, so long its ends touched his feet. “How you speak to me at times with such disregard for my status.”

It was not for lack of respect, or arrogance that Arthur spoke so freely with him. Perhaps more because he had known Eames as a king of wolf men before he revealed himself as a Chernobog to him.

Or, more truthfully, because he was still reeling from the notion that a god would want him as his consort and wished not for Eames to know how such knowledge was frightening.

In any case he knew Eames’ words to be a lie if ever one had been spoken. “No,” Arthur said. “Its part of why you favor me.”

“Indeed!” Eames steepled his hands, walking in a languid circle around Arthur. “Mind you, worship and reverence have their place. But I find an excessive amount of such to be so _boring_ eventually.” He fiddled with Arthur’s pelt. “We both know you don’t need your caul, not for this. Besides, isn’t that a betrayal of the rules you shackle yourself to?”

Arthur nearly glared at him for the taunt in his voice. But Eames was right, he should be as bare as the god who stood before him. He _wanted_ to be bare. And yet. “I’ll lose my abilities as a zduhać-”

“If you take it off in the waking world, not this one.” Eames tsked, but his eyes were serious. “You must approach me in _prav,_ with nothing but your soul to guide you.” He leaned in closer. “There’s no need for fear here. _”_

“I am not afraid of you.” Arthur said quietly, unable to look away from him. And he shifted closer towards Eames, both for emphasis and because he was drawn to.

No malice laid in Eames’ smile. “Of course not.” His fingers brushed down the symbols on Arthur’s right arm. “Undress yourself fully.” The words were more entreating than commanding. “I want to see all of you.”

Arthur breathed out deeply, hesitant as he pushed his caul off his shoulders. All of Eames’ attention was on him, and his stare held a devotion and awe he nearly wished to flee from. As the wolf skin fell to his feet, another shield he’d wielded was cast aside.

“There you are.” Eames said, gentle almost. “I can sense how hungry you are for this.”

Lowering himself to his knees, Arthur reached down and grasped himself. He was hard merely from the anticipation and it had been so long since he’d brought himself release that the firm grip of his hand alone was overwhelming. Panting, Arthur stroked himself slowly, not wanting to hasten this.

Eames knelt behind him. In all the times they’d come together, Arthur never touched him first. His fingers brushed over a tuft of hair on Arthur’s left shoulder, the mark of zduhać. It was given a sharp tug, bringing a startled moan forth from him. His chest and stomach hair was given the same treatment, before sharp nails scratched down his flank. Arthur pushed his body out towards the contact without thought. “ _D-Diabol_.”

“I’m here.” Eames’ lips curved into a smile against his ear. He twisted Arthur’s nipples hard enough to make him bite his lip savagely, drawing blood.

Arthur let his head fall back on Eames’ shoulder, feeling him shudder at the scent of blood. Eames licked at his lip with his long, golden tongue. His cock was a thick weight pressing against Arthur’s back, reminding him of all he could have.

“I know you never pleasure yourself save for when you’re in my presence.” Eames said.  “Have you any notion how much I relish this taste of all the devotion you could show me? How it torments me?”

Arthur felt a fire engulfing him from within, stirring in his loins and burning all the up to his throat. One he could not escape, even if he wished to. Eames gripped his hair harder, until his head stung and he groaned. All the while that inhuman tongue licked at sweat running down his flesh.

Arthur’s hand shook, slipping as he continued to try and stroke himself. Dirt and leaves sunk under his legs Eames the only force steadying him. He might as well have been submerged in boiling water, each ragged breath he took only dragged him further into the depths. Could his body withstand the heat?

Eames pressed his teeth to Arthur’s neck. “Only if you surrender to it, to me, completely. _Let me in_.”

An assurance, and an offer he’d heard before.

Thick black liquid began to drip from the tips of Eames’ fingers. Arthur did not know the nature of the substance, only that as it was spread over his flesh he felt as if he was forming another layer of skin.

Shuddering, Arthur rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock. Pre-spending wept from its tip

“I can’t resist.” Eames’ voice had grown huskier and two-toned, one much deeper than the other. Arthur brought that out in him. The god behind his human guise was clawing its way to the surface.

He moved with a swiftness that startled Arthur, pushing him down into the leaves roughly and settling between his legs. Eames stroked through the hair surrounding his cock, covering his thighs, pushing them further apart.

“All of this could be yours Arthur. All of me…”

Were it not for the command in Eames’ stare, Arthur would have shut his eyes tightly, certain of his intentions. Trembling, he kept them open and the sound he made when Eames- a creature of great dominion, a god - took him into his mouth felt as if it could not have come from his own body. At once he was surrounded by wet, coiling heat far more intense than any human’s mouth. Eames’ tongue spiraled up his cock, the tip pressing into his slit.

Arthur’s lashes fluttered, fingers digging into the black earth, tears prickling at his the corners of his eyes. Overwhelmed, his body attempted to jerk back but he was pinned down by Eames’ hands and could only shake and cry out as he spilled himself.

“It...has been a while since you’ve done that.” Arthur panted as Eames swallowed his seed, making a guttural, pleased sound.

Eames crawled further up atop him. “Not since you charged through my forest with your bloody sickle and warriors, hunting down my pet wolf men. I remember that night well.” He stroked over Arthur hips. “You dropped four of their heads before my feet. I wanted to fuck you right then and there.”

Arthur’s ears felt hot, he looked away. The memory was one he could never forget as well. He had been full of pride and vengeance from taking the heads of the vucari who attacked his town. But a passion unlike any other had been unlocked when he met Eames’ gaze. They had reached an agreement in his lair, away from the prying eyes of Arthur’s warriors.

For days following, Arthur wore the bruises and scratches from their fucking with more satisfaction that the wolf men’s blood soaked pelts. On nights that he did not have to ride the winds, he would venture out far into the woods again to sink his teeth into Eames’ flesh, to be fucked so deep and hard each step he took afterwards had him aching in the best of ways.

Their union had but one complication: Arthur’s loyalty to his town. When Eames revealed his true nature to him, perhaps he’d hoped it would be enough to compel Arthur stay with him alone.

“Fidelity is one of the nine noble virtues a volkhvy takes an oath to uphold.” Arthur whispered, running his hands along Eames’ body. “I swore to protect my people Diabol.”

“You are not the only zduhać there anymore.”

Even though that was true, Arthur shook his head. “Jakov is just a babe.”

“He will grow as they all do, perhaps even swifter,” Eames cupped Arthur’s chin, grinning. “With some assistance. It would take some convincing those haggard Sudice, but it’s not impossible.” He cut off Arthur’s protest. “Calm yourself my dear, I won’t fray an inch of the child’s caul doing so. Consider this instead, when the boy becomes a man, what reason will you have left to deny me?”

None, save for the knowledge Arthur held in his heart. That to surrender was to be consumed by Eames.

Was that so grievous, however, if he was allowed to possess and consume Eames turn?

 

+

 

“Having been ensnared by the prince’s falcon, the pigeon then told him that if he were to cut three wands growing behind the well and strike their root a prison would be revealed to him.” Arthur cast white dust into the heating oven. “One which held many people.”

Both he and Filipa watched as a plume of smoke swirled around her bedside. Slowly it molded itself into the image of a stone fortress. Filipa rubbed her eyes, but still reached forward to try and touch the picture. “And?” She yawned, patting her hands on her blanket. Fighting slumber as she often did. “Big bird eat little bird?”

Arthur nodded. “Correct. The prince married the king’s daughter and there was a great feast held for them.” He brushed back fair strands of Filipa’s hair. “When it was done they released the prince’s brothers and all those held prisoner by the fierce dragon.” Casting red dust into the fire brought forth a scene of men and women celebrating. “Afterwards the prince went to the well, found the wands and struck their roots. But when he returned to his wives’ kingdom he found it empty. Not a soul in sight.”

“B’uh he find them?” Filipa asked quietly. She never tired of this tale.

“Not yet. First he searched and searched but found no one. Not knowing what else to do, the prince returned to the prison.” Arthur pulled the blankets further on top of her. “And to his great sadness there lied everyone, dead.” He saw that Filipa’s eyes were closed, but continued to the tale’s end. “Upon returning to his father’s kingdom, he recounted his tale to him and his brothers, who decided that at dawn they would journey to the prison and bury each body there.”

“Does she ever get upset?” Ariane whispered from where she sat cradling Jakov. “Hearing such a grim story?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. It makes her curious.” Filled with questions of why the people died. Given the duties her brother would uptake, it was good that she learn this lesson early: death is often the price paid for life.

Ariane’s face was openly disapproving, no matter the differences in their status. Arthur did not take offense. “She’s not seen even five winters yet.”

“Peace is often a mere uncertain time between wars.” Arthur stood, giving Ariane a pointed stare. “Is it so different where you came from?”

They both knew it was not. Vikings were fabled and feared for their raids. Ariane knew this better than any other.

Outside fires were burning from the cemetery, bells rung along with uproarious drunken cries. Arthur was eager to depart from Dominik’s dwelling for it was Koročun, the longest night when old Hors withered on the edge of death. Struck down by the dark powers of the Black God. By Eames.

“I am certain Mal will not be cross with you if she and Jakov do not sleep through this particular night.” Even with all the food Filipa ate at the feast, a full belly was not much a match for the noise of the masked procession. Arthur adjusted the wreath he wore as he left, careful not to rub at all the black painted on his face.

Clothed in furs with carved into the shape of grotesque demonic faces, the crowd of men and women alike marched past him. Robert was dancing around a fire in circles with other volkhvy. Sounds of drumming, laughter and clammering bells no doubt carried well into the forest, a call for malevolent creatures who were at their most powerful tonight to stay at bay.

Yet it was not this sanctuary Arthur walked towards, but untamed wilds in the snow covered forest.

 

+

 

Their town was shadowed under the vast mountains of Carpates and the sea of trees surrounding its base. Now ice hang from branches, a thick bed of snow spread over rocks and withered bushes. There was a fog, pale as milk encompassing the area. Myesyats’ moon shone round and full in the sky. When he exhaled Arthur saw his breath in the air, though he felt none of the cold.

He was being guided by Eames’ force. A path he followed instinctively, like a hound tracking the scent of blood.

In his hand he held a dagger. As a youth Arthur used to try and wrestle hounds into submission for fun. To this day he carried the scars from their teeth and claws. He was no longer that boy. Even so his soul remained that of a beasts, the wolf’s pelt draping his shoulders more second skin than garment.

In these woods dwelt many ferocious and mighty creatures, though for the most formidable Arthur was prepared to lay down his weapon.

He was led to an uprooted oak, nearly identical to the one in his dream. Eames was waiting in front of it.

This time Arthur did not need to be asked. With sure hands he disrobed himself of all his clothes, divesting his caul without hesitation. And stood before this god bare as his soul was to him, his weapon cast aside.

Eyes of red and yellow tracked his movements. Eames was in his full divine form, flesh coal colored, two curved horns similar to a rams protruding from his head, his featherless wings outstretched. His beard remained the same, as did his braid of hair which dragged against the snow along with his thin pointed tail.

“I fancied that ornament better when it was hanging from your door.” Eames was nearly snarling at the wreath on Arthur’s head. “Did you wear it to taunt me?”

Arthur shook his head. “No.” He was curious. “I saw no sign of your vucari on my way here. The dagger was for them.”

“Ahh yes, that lot.” Eames’ mood became more jovial. “Well my dear, after I agreed that they would never attack your town they had to go elsewhere for food. You see, the Leshy in this forest aren’t too fond of the animals they protect being hunted so frequently. Unfortunately the other villages were well armed with silver blades. So those poor runts began to stave.” He laughed as he shook his head. “I proposed they sacrifice fifty souls to the Black God. They must become one with the earth. And in return they would be reborn and never feel hunger again.” Eames stepped towards him. “We’re standing over where I buried them.”

Buried alive. Arthur stared at him. “You deceived them. Led them into suicide.” Such a display of influence, of raw power had him moving closer to Eames. “Have me here.” He insisted, full of want.

“Once more I have misjudged you.” Eames’ bellowing voice was full of gladness. “Here I thought you would feel some repulsion. But you’re so…” His hand was large enough to grasp the whole of Arthur’s throat, but he did not touch him. Only hovered his fingers over such a vulnerable area. “So much of what I crave.”

Arthur had to reach up to grasp the bloodsoaked hair on Eames’ chest, for he loomed over him in his God form. “You must sit down.”  

“Why such a feeble imagination my dear?” Eames grinned, but did as Arthur said. His tail wrapped around Arthur’s hips, pulling him down.“There are many, many other ways I could fuck you. As you surely remember.”

Of course the memory surfaced immediately. Arthur down on his hands and knees atop his pelt, fisting the fur desperately. His back arched to an obscene extent, ass held high and Eames hands gripping his hips as he pounded him. Each thrust drove moans from Arthur loud enough to have the vucari outside Eames’ lair howling in approval. His face had flushed red from the audience but at the same time he wanted them to hear him. To know that he was the one whose tightness and heat hand their leader nearly roaring himself in his passion.

Arthur’s cock twitched even as he shook his head. “Not this time.”

The snow was soft against his legs, so delicate compared to the hard span of Eames’s body. He paid no mind to the blood that stained his skin, far less to that black substance Eames began to rub on him. Arthur rolled his hips, rubbing his hardness against Eames’. His cock was similar to a normal mans, save for three bluntly tipped spikes running down his shaft.

Eames coated his fingers in snow, grinning at him as he pressed them into Arthur’s hole. _Now_ he felt the cold, traveling up his back, making his toes curl. He gasped, his cock throbbing as those clever fingers pressed further inside him. Gradually softening him until Arthur was aching to be fucked.

Eames’ tail curled around his neck, its tip brushing over Arthur’s lips. He allowed it slide into his mouth, sucking hard, pleased to feel Eames shudder.  Taking ahold of his cock, Arthur pressed it to his hole, grunting as he began to lower himself onto it. The burn from being stretched was one he savored, never wishing for their joining to be without that all-consuming sensation.

Eames growled, holding Arthur’s hips tight enough to surely leave marks. When Arthur raised himself up, Eames yanked him down forcefully. It made the feel of his cock plunging up deep into Arthur violent in the best of ways. Both of them were soon moaning, lost in one another. Eames devouring Arthur and surrendering himself to be equally consumed.

The power Arthur felt was a searing heat that matched his arousal. Hotter than the fires that burned over the ground where his ancestor laid.

“We fit together perfectly.” Eames sighed. “We’re fate, can’t you see my dear?”

“What,” Arthur licked Eames’ bottom lip, panting. “Would you have me do?”

Eames’ kiss felt as if it had drawn blood. “I would have you acknowledge what you know is in your heart.” He said. “That you yearn for me as I do you. That one night shall never be enough to satiate you.”

“It shall not,” Arthur agreed, gripping Eames’ wing bones as he rode him in earnest. “ _Eames_.”

His hands touched Eames everywhere he could reach, worshipful yet savage, Arthur digging his nails into that dark flesh. Wishing he had the might to leave marks on Eames’ body visible as the black matter smearing his own body.  Arthur licked trails of snow off his skin before biting him.

Even as he groaned with pleasure Eames was still speaking to him, in that deep voice. His words were filthy now. Telling Arthur how he rode his cock as if he was born to be filled by it. How he was clenched around him tighter than chains; the way Arthur’s body rocking, so slick and hot made him want to throw him down into the snow and rut him like a beast.

“You would take it, would you not?” Eames’ hand was tight in Arthur’s hair, breath hot against his ear. “You would cry out, tremble and spread open for me and only beg for more.” He thrust his hips up harder. Those spikes on his cock were tormenting that sensitive spot inside Arthur. Pushing to nothing but the brutal honesty of the depths of his desires.

“Yes,” He said, nearly wept. “Yes yes...”

His words were an oath that carried throughout the forest. Let any man or beast who happened upon them know that Arthur laid with divinity that night. That in that moment, he did surrender, and became one with those who stalked among the shadows and were creatures borne of  malicious natures.

 

+

 

“The sun is setting on the old ways.” Eames watched Koleda, the new sun, begin to rise. “Wolves wrapped in sheep wool will come, proclaiming the worship of one God.”

Arthur’s head was resting on his chest. “Christians?” He said in such a manner Eames knew he must be frowning. “They’ve come here before, and to several other towns. Their God is weak.”

Such fierce conviction. There was a time when Eames and his divine brethren believed the same. It was almost a pity they were wrong. Almost. “He is _rising_. Soon his worship will engulf these lands for generations to come.” He touched Arthur’s kolovrat.  “Your only chance at eternity lies with me. Come away with me Arthur.”

“What will become of my town?” Arthur asked.

Now here was where Eames must be careful. At last he saw his prize within his grasp, but he mustn't become too greedy. “They will cast aside the old gods. They will cast aside you.’’

What he did not include was the fire of war that would engulf the land. How it would be fought over time and time again. Or the burning flames that would engulf those who dared not to abandon their old faith, and those whose abilities bore testament to its existence.

So on the surface, there was no deception in Eames’ voice. Save for that of an omission Arthur would not be searching for. Since revealing his true nature Eames had been careful to be frank with his love.

Yet he sensed a familiar fear in Arthur. Of how much he desired what was being offered to him. Godhood, everlasting life.  In the silence that followed, Eames wondered if he would once more  flee from it. Or finally embrace a truth he could no longer deny it.

“I want you.” Arthur said. “But I am not ready to leave.” Eames was ready to protest but Arthur stopped him. “Not until I’ve taught Jakov the ways of a zduhać. I know you have waited some time for me-”

Of course that that fair haired, insignificant whelp. Eames despised him almost as much as his father. He sighed longsufferingly. “Yes, you’ve certainly led me on a merry chase my dear.”

Arthur took off his wreath. “Take this as my oath that you shall not have to wait much longer. That when Jakov comes of age and is ready to take my place, I will come away with you.”

Eames grasped the wreath, a pretty but useless object. Arthur’s words made it immensely more appealing. He knew better than anyone how seriously his love took his promises. In his hand he held a symbol of Arthur’s affection and servitude to those undeserving folk. And he was giving it to Eames.

Would he be cross when the full truth of the future was revealed? Certainly. But by then he would finally be at Eames’ side as a god and his consort.

Oh if Eames were to be truly honest with himself, he very much looked forward to feeling the heat of Arthur’s fury.


End file.
